


Sired in Sulphur

by funeral_in_carpathia



Category: Animamundi Dark Alchemist
Genre: Childhood Trauma, Coming of Age, Gen, Portrait of a Villain, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-14
Updated: 2013-10-14
Packaged: 2017-12-29 09:58:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1004034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/funeral_in_carpathia/pseuds/funeral_in_carpathia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of John Montague Sandwich, his throne in the underworld and the Hell-Fire Club, and the unfortunate fate that was immortality.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sired in Sulphur

_Beautiful._

It could as well have been his name, his title in the stead of Count, for that was how often that word greeted him from the lips of a well-meaning relative or whatever. John the Beautiful, a direct descendant of Philip the Fair, driven to this hideous hinterland called Hardland… His silken locks coiled perfectly and shone in the exquisite colour of the sun; his gray eyes were pale but stunningly strong when matched with the iridescent white of his skin that had no intention of hiding the blue blood beneath. 

It had undoubtedly been his smile that had quenched the First Continental War, and if anything, only his wit could match his beauty. Yet there was a wicked, wretched man who could not understand such supreme beauty.

Count Sandwich the Elder, a man some demented minds might call his father – the man who had mounted his mother in some vile act and dragged her through the antechamber to Hell that some liked to call church, only to save the shreds of his soul. It was funny, for animals were not supposed to have souls, yet even his pet bird possessed more of it than his father. The bird, rest its soul, at least got the peaceful death it deserved; why, yes, it was most definitely its soul that flew out of its beak the bird drew its last breath in the young count’s fond grip.

From the first time his father did what he did, the young count was certain he had no soul at all.

Had it happened only once he might have buried the memory with his initial shock or seen it as normal. He had heard of _the cane_ from the other young lords, yet his father was one of a kind. It was beyond his comprehension how such a blubbery man, more Humpty-Dumpty than son of Adam, could deliver such a lacerating blow to the soft flesh where his back and thighs met, drawing an animal scream from the lips that spoke six tongues, of which two dead, and sang hymns to the Almighty so brightly. 

Everyone knew, so he spoke to no one. His little family was like a diary of an adolescent girl: everyone could see the pain, the madness and hysteria, yet they refused to read those things – not that they even could through the locks of steel and heart that sometimes became one.

One Sunday, after Mass as he stayed in the church to study his Latin, he saw the love and pain in Father Orfeo’s closed eyes and crossed hands and knew what to do.

“Father Orfeo, I know I am not of age yet, but I wish to confess.” He bowed his head, a cascade of curls obscuring his vision of the young Father Orfeo, who always wore his moth-eaten robes with pride so strangely in truce with the humility of his demeanour.

“Tell me then, dear boy. What troubles you so?” Father Orfeo knelt beside him, his lean, soft hands on the young man’s shoulders. The poor man thought himself the good, kind shepherd; yet as he would later learn the hard way through the unfortunate reformation, only the ruthless would triumph.

Lying, of course, was a grave sin, so he did not lie to Father Orfeo. He told him every little detail as it was: his father hurting him when he found him wicked, time after time, holding his thick, throbbing rod, making his son beg for forgiveness and kiss the head of his rod, kiss it again until--

Perhaps his words, those of a mere child, turned out a little different from the truth, but the responsibility was no longer his. He had given his all, confided in the priest that would guide his soul to seek God through all passion and adversity, and oh, did the crown of thorns feel sweet on his temples as he watched Father Orfeo pen a hasty letter and wipe sweat off his brow as he handed the letter to a courier. 

He never knew what Father Orfeo wrote in his letter; yet the next time he saw his father was behind bars, waiting for the pardon that never came. His excuses rang for the empty walls as his turned away from that disgusting man, that grave sinner who signed his terrible crime by taking his own life while in the end.

His mother, she grew weaker, eventually insane. She blamed herself for never picking up the signs, and he grew to despise her for her lack of mind and faith in his swine of a husband.

He was not surprised when she slowly withered to death, unable to watch her son grow tall and stain his sheets in the strangest of sleep. Day after day, he kindly visited her chambers, stroked her hair and took away her dinner when she refused to eat; yet not once did he say a word to the doctors or maids to make her eat. Her will be done should he so wish to be reunited with the monster of a husband…

Then there was only him and him alone, John Montague Sandwich, heir to the title his father was prematurely stripped of. They felt sorry for him, yet squirmed at his feet for a measly compliment or gift. He gave them nothing at all, claiming his handsome heritage was for his education – and education it was, in ways more than one. 

He arranged reading salons and concerts, studied art as new promising artists immortalized his divine beauty on canvas and marble, but the most profound of his interests was to be found in the art of humanity. Some minister’s wife as his guide one night at the masked ball, he discovered the pleasures of the flesh, the liberty to cater for so many needs and desires with his manhood alone; and she was satisfied, so very satisfied that she wanted to instruct him again.

Her husband suspected nothing; he lauded young John as if he were his own son, raised a toast to him at every gathering, unbeknownst to the frequency that his pristine wife spread her legs for young John in the bust gallery.

When she became heavy with child, he saw neither no more, but the foundations to his reputation were already made. 

His name was John Montague Sandwich, and, at the age of seventeen, he had a mind to rule the world; not on the throne of Hardland, for God had given him no such gift, but on a throne built by himself alone. 

Kings would be kings, good or lousy, but he, oh, he would be remembered far beyond that.


End file.
